


And I Know

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Surrender 'Verse [9]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, Coming Out, Discovery, Friendship, M/M, Protectiveness, Rank Disparity, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:36:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22623421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: Hamilton is accustomed to keeping secrets, but guarding them from his best friend is a heavier burden than most. He aches to tell Laurens the truth, as long as he can convince his general it's worth the risk.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & John Laurens, Alexander Hamilton/George Washington
Series: Surrender 'Verse [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/796566
Comments: 48
Kudos: 152





	1. Chapter 1

Even if he had a century to practice, keeping secrets would never be instinctive for Alexander Hamilton. His first and most powerful instinct will always be honesty, even when candor carries the weight of unnecessary conflict. Hamilton is perpetually braced for a fight anyway. Why should he avoid such challenges when he is so accustomed to digging his heels in?

There are some secrets he has _always_ needed to keep. His past. His personal inclinations. Practice has made him masterful at concealing these particular things, and his connection to George Washington has only rendered deception more necessary. Much as he wishes they lived in a world that did not require such machinations, Hamilton is well accustomed to making the most of unsatisfactory reality.

In most ways, he has made his peace with this necessity. He doesn't owe the world a glimpse into his heart. Even were his supposed marriage to Eliza a true and genuine union, he would still be entitled to his secrets.

But after two years of wearing George's ring, Hamilton also wishes they were not necessary. He hates lying to his dearest friends. To Lafayette, who has known some fragment of what Hamilton and Washington are to each other, yet mistakenly thinks they have both moved on. To Hercules Mulligan, absent and in constant peril, spying for Washington in New York. To John Laurens, who somehow still has not figured out what is happening right under his nose.

It's Laurens whom Hamilton most yearns to tell. He has entrusted every other guarded truth in his best friend—even the ugliness of his childhood—and yet Laurens does not know he loves Washington. Which means Laurens does not truly know him at all.

This, at least, seems like one injustice Hamilton has the power to remedy.

The main thing staying his hand is the possibility of a disastrous reaction. Hamilton doubts Laurens will disavow him simply for the blasphemy of desiring men. Hell, he strongly suspects Laurens too appreciates more than just women when it comes to beauties of the flesh. But this analysis is neither certain _nor_ enough to encompass the scope of the situation.

For one thing, without speaking up, Hamilton can't be sure his faith is well placed. For another, Laurens might go for Washington's throat regardless.

But the idea continues to gnaw at him, a lingering restiveness that claws beneath his skin and offers no respite.

He doesn't go off half-cocked. Even once he decides his path—even though the temptation to act speedily and without thought is nearly overpowering—Hamilton bides his time. He strategizes. And most importantly, he tells Washington what he intends, giving his husband an opportunity to chart a different course.

This decision is not Hamilton's alone. The danger of wider discovery is mutual, and Washington has every right to refuse the risk.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" Washington's arms offer perfect, protective warmth, keeping out the midnight chill. There is familiar gentleness in his tone—he is always softest after using Hamilton rough and hard—and tonight has been just such a night.

"Yes," Hamilton says, voice graveled and sore. He snugs in closer and presses a kiss to his husband's chest. "But I don't want to see you hurt, or ruin your reputation. If you ask me not to risk it, I won't." He tries very, _very_ hard not to let on how difficult restraining himself will be—how much it will cost him. His reassurance is sincere. If his husband and general deems it wiser to forebear, Hamilton abide by the judgment.

"This means a great deal to you." Washington's lips brush Hamilton's hairline with the quiet observation, because of course he sees Hamilton's heart with inescapable clarity.

"It does," Hamilton confesses. "I hate that my dearest friend doesn't really know me. That I have not _let him_ know me."

"He may react poorly."

"Yes." Hamilton lets his tone convey just how thoroughly he has considered the possible outcomes. "But I'd rather face a catastrophic explosion than continue like this. I hate feeling like a liar and a criminal when I have nothing to be ashamed of."

No matter how much his own safety and public standing require discretion, Hamilton knows in his heart that in pursuing Washington—in bedding and loving and marrying him—he has done _nothing wrong_.

Washington is silent for a long time. When he finally speaks, he sounds as calm and earnest as ever. "Very well. May I request one indulgence?"

" _Anything_."

"Wait two weeks, until my inspection of the southern supply chain. With any luck, my absence will give Laurens a chance to acclimate to the situation before he can do anything rash."

Hamilton refrains from pointing out there are plenty of rash things Laurens might do regardless. The point is reasonable. At the very least, Laurens won't be able to storm Washington's office and pick an immediate fight. With Washington absent from the encampment, John's hair-trigger temper won't have a target. Perhaps he _will_ cool off in time to avoid blatant insubordination.

There are other dangers—the possibility Laurens could write indiscreet letters or find some other way to reveal Washington's conduct to Congress—but Hamilton is confident he can prevent the worst of these attempts. He is clever and stubborn, after all, and he knows Laurens better than any other living soul.

Fielding the consequences of this decision may well be easier with Washington at a distance, so Hamilton answers without hesitation.

"Okay."


	2. Chapter 2

Waiting is both worse and easier than Hamilton anticipates. Worse because, now that he knows what to do, the desire to rush ahead is a powerful force indeed. Easier because he _does_ have a plan, which means this limbo of dishonesty is finite.

When Washington departs from camp, it is with two of his aides as well as Lafayette, newly promoted to major general. Hamilton's responsibilities double in their absence, leaving little time for personal pursuits. The contingent has been absent for three days before Hamilton manages to corner Laurens and ask for a moment alone.

"Will you walk with me?" He interrupts quiet work in a half-empty headquarters. "I have complicated news that requires privacy."

All this Hamilton says with a thrill of excitement and a shiver of trepidation. He has been so impatient to make good on his decision. He has composed and rehearsed beyond any reasonable expectation, and yet he cannot know whether his explanations will win Laurens over. It seems just as likely he'll be doing damage control in a very short while. It's even possible, though Hamilton trembles to think it, that their friendship will end. If Laurens tries to do Washington harm—if he reacts poorly to Hamilton defending the general—there might be no recovering lost ground.

If forced to choose, Hamilton will favor Washington without hesitation. And if Laurens discovers this fact—if he is sufficiently angry and hurt—he could turn his back for good.

All of this would be ample reason to avoid the planned confession, but Hamilton feels the weight of it pressing forward instead. He can't spend the rest of his life deceiving his best friend—a man who is more of a brother than Hamilton's own sibling ever tried to be—and he can't ignore the knowledge that Laurens was the first person besides his mother that Hamilton truly trusted.

There are others now, undeniably. George, of course. And Eliza, who guards their secret. But Hamilton _needs_ Laurens to know. He needs to open these floodgates and either confirm his trust is well placed, or learn if he's mistaken. Catastrophic though losing Laurens would be, he would rather _know_ , so he can pick up the pieces of his heart and move on.

And of course, there is always the hope he will not have to lose Laurens at all.

It takes a startled moment for the answer to come, but at last Laurens sets aside his quill. "Of course we can walk." Then he dons his blue buff jacket, and his hat, and follows Alexander out into the lowering dusk.

The orchard at the edge of the encampment is a dead and desiccated place. Every row of trees has been burnt, by one army or the other in their endless sequence of advances and retreats. What better way to prevent the enemy from finding effective forage? The result is a desolate stretch of terrain. What trees still stand are hollow cinders, and even the ground remains parched, ashy beneath the footsteps of the two men.

This is not a popular place, filled as it is with ghosts and destruction, and so it's the perfect spot to be sure a conversation won't be disturbed.

Perhaps Hamilton should not be surprised when Laurens doesn't allow him to begin his meticulously rehearsed speech before asking softly, "Are you finally going to confess your marriage to Eliza is a front?"

Hamilton nearly trips over his own feet at this question. He stumbles, corrects his footing, straightens. Then turns to stare in guilty horror, only to find Laurens watching him with an expression of serene amusement. It doesn't make sense. If Laurens knows his marriage to Eliza is a blatant falsehood, why not confront him before now?

Why is Laurens not angry at being misled?

"How long have you known?" he asks.

"For the better part of a year," Laurens admits.

Only half as long as Hamilton and Washington have actually been married. Apparently he managed the facade well enough in the beginning. He wonders what sign or slip-up has gave him away.

He says his next words cautiously. "And you're… not angry?"

Laurens shrugs. A sliver of the mirth dims from his eyes, but his expression remains amiable. It _must_ be an honest expression—Laurens has never possessed the knack for pretending calm in the face of more heartfelt reactions.

"I was. Briefly," John admits. "But then it occurred to me, of course you didn't say anything. You would never divulge someone else's secret. And once I understood some truths about Eliza, I realized. You certainly wouldn't have married her if you _didn't_ intend to protect her."

Hamilton's head spins with the contradiction of insight and misapprehension, and he furrows his brow. "How did you figure us out?" There is even more care in this question, which he has kept deliberately ambiguous. He needs to understand what his friend actually knows before he can proceed with his own admissions.

"By watching you together. And by watching you apart. I would stake my rank and my commission on the fact that our dear Eliza does not fancy men—and certainly does not fancy you—though she presents the convincing illusion of a doting wife when you appear together in public." Laurens offers him a rueful smile. "And _you_ , my beloved scoundrel, are at your most sated when you've been nowhere near her. Whoever you are bedding in Eliza's stead, it's clear she makes you very happy."

These observations break over Hamilton's head and heart like a tidal wave. Laurens sees so many things _so clearly_ , and yet his conclusions are patchy in precisely the places Hamilton needs him to understand.

Laurens must mistake the reason for his hesitation, because reassurance follows quickly. "You don't have to confirm my suspicions about Eliza. I don't need you to betray her confidence. It doesn't matter _why_ you two are refraining from a more intimate connection. What matters is that you have found your way to an advantageous union regardless, and that it does not appear to interfere with your happiness. Either of you. I'm delighted for you, Alexander."

And oh, Laurens is _happy for him_ , and Hamilton wishes he could be certain that will remain true a few tense seconds from now.

There is no point delaying the moment now that he is here. Hamilton inhales slowly and meets John's eyes. "I'm not just bedding someone else. I've _married_ someone else. You're more right than you realize. My marriage to Eliza is a fiction we maintain for both our sakes; no one can know of my true connection."

"But you're going to tell me now, aren't you?" A cheeky grin spreads across John's face. "I'll admit, I've been curious. More than once I've considered tailing your movements to and from camp in the hopes of identifying her."

"I'm not married to a woman."

The words emerge so soft, and yet they echo in the stillness like a pistol shot. Barely a whisper, but carrying all the weight and force of a cannonball fired down a steep embankment. Hamilton knows a thing or two about cannon fire. He knows how quickly artillery can decimate an otherwise fortified position.

The smile has vanished from John's face, but he still doesn't sound angry when he says, "Am I an idiot? Or are you a better liar than I thought?"

"Laurens—"

"I should have realized, shouldn't I?"

"I had a vested interest in being sure no one knew the truth. But I can't keep secrets from you anymore. Even if it means you don't want to remain my friend, I needed you to know. I _am_ married, and he _does_ make me happy. I won't spend the rest of my life lying to you about who I really am."

He honestly doesn't expect Laurens to stride forward and drag him into a ferocious hug, and it's only when this happens that Hamilton realizes how violently he is shaking. How utterly terrified he really was that he might be on the verge of losing this friendship forever. But Laurens isn't storming off or turning away. Laurens is _right here_ , holding Hamilton in the protective circle of his arms—holding so tight it seems impossible he ever intends to let go.

Laurens draws a deep breath as though to speak. Multiple times. But no words come, and eventually the arms around Hamilton loosen and fall away. Laurens takes a step back. Hamilton does too, meeting dark eyes with glittering determination.

"Are you going to tell me who he is?" Laurens asks.

Hamilton does not point out what a ridiculous question that is—how easily Laurens could now figure it out for himself—or that, of course Hamilton is going to tell him, what would be the point of confessing only part of the truth?

But he still hesitates, bracing himself to put out the inevitable fire of John's temper.

Once again Laurens must mistake the pause for something else, because he looks distinctly hurt as he says, "It's okay if you'd rather n—"

"General Washington is my husband," Hamilton blurts, before Laurens can finish letting him off the hook, and before Hamilton himself can change his mind.

There is a moment's perfect stillness. Silent shock. Incredulity stretching taut on a scant breeze.

Then John's face turns grim and he snarls, "I'll kill him. I'll tear his head off with my bare fucking hands, and then I'll stab him just to make sure he's dead."

" _John_ ," Hamilton snaps.

The sharp tone succeeds at reclaiming the man's attention, but it does nothing to dispel the lightning storm that flashes across his face.

"He's your _commanding officer_ ," Laurens hisses, clearly trying to be mindful of his volume and the delicacy of their conversation. There's no one near them in this dead orchard, but there's also no reason for carelessness. "He had no right to touch you!"

"I begged him to touch me." Hamilton tries to sound calm despite the way this assertion makes his face burn—not with shame, but with a mortification that comes of revealing something intensely personal. "I begged him to _love me_. And he does. If you believe nothing else, believe that."

"He is a married man."

"No more so than I am."

This, at least, seems to give Laurens pause. He is quiet for a time, as though absorbing this new information. When a fresh surge of anger flashes, Hamilton hopes he is not imagining that the ferocity has banked a little.

"He's manipulating you somehow," Laurens insists.

"He is doing no such thing."

"Washington is not here, and you choose now to seek me out? I may be an idiot, but I know damn well that's not a coincidence. If you're too scared to say anything while he's close, how can you expect me to believe—"

"Because I am _telling you_ ," Hamilton shouts. He snaps his mouth shut after, teeth clicking, and whirls to scan their surroundings. It takes only a moment to reassure himself they are still alone, and he quiets himself deliberately as he turns to face Laurens once more. "I'm not _scared of him_. This isn't a call for reinforcements. You're right, it's no coincidence, but I'm not trying to— This isn't— God damn it, I am telling you _now_ so that you don't try to _shoot him_."

"Alexander—"

"He'll return to camp in a week. Take that time to cool down, and then you are more than welcome to inform him of this conversation. If you promise not to get yourself court-martialed or make me a widower, I'll even let you confront him alone."

Laurens is gawping with such wide eyes that Hamilton wishes he could laugh. In another world, another lifetime, the expression of disapproving astonishment might be hilarious. As things stand, it _hurts_. Somewhere deep and trusting and irrationally hopeful, it hurts to have Laurens look at the situation and assume the worst.

Perhaps it hurts more than it might _because_ John's conclusions aren't without some understandable basis.

"I know how it must look," Hamilton concedes grudgingly. "I realize my rank and station could easily make me vulnerable to coercion of a more scandalous sort."

"Then you admit he misuses his authority."

" _No_ ," Hamilton growls. "George has never coerced me into anything." Taken him in depraved and sometimes violent ways, with little more than the strength of their likemindedness and understanding to protect them? Yes. But Hamilton very much doubts Laurens will see any merit in that distinction, and so he won't try to explain. Laurens has seen him bruised and debauched and hurting in the wake of brutal trysts with Washington—and jumped to the faulty conclusion that some delightful hellion of a woman was to blame.

Hamilton hopes Laurens will not remember those moments until after he's had a chance to cool down. If he makes that particular leap, he will inevitably erupt all over again.

"And yet you think he is your husband," Laurens says softly.

"He _is_ my husband. I wear his ring, and he wears mine. The fact that we can't live openly together doesn't make it any less true."

They are both silent for a time. A stalemate stands unyielding between them, an absolute agony of tension filling the air.

Finally Hamilton says, "I'll leave you to decide your feelings about all of this. Please don't do anything rash. I assure you, no matter how careful you try to be, if you go after the general publicly you will bring me down with him."

Laurens gives a guilty start, and Hamilton knows he has guessed right. In tying his own wellbeing directly to Washington's, he has done perhaps the only thing he possibly can to stay John's hand.

"If you wish to continue as friends, I'll be waiting," Hamilton finishes, and then turns to make his solitary way back into camp.


	3. Chapter 3

For the entire rest of the week, Laurens keeps his distance as much as hectic duties and cramped headquarters will allow.

Hamilton does not give up hope in that time. Laurens is capable of avoiding headquarters entirely when in a temper—there is enough other work to make many excuses plausible—which means his continued presence, silent and evasive though it is, _must_ be a good sign.

After Washington returns with his entourage, Laurens confronts him alone. Hamilton doesn't follow through the door, but he does make Laurens leave both sword and pistols in the hall.

The evening is late, the rest of headquarters nearly empty. Hamilton returns to his own work on the ground floor, and though he strains for any sound of conversation unfolding upstairs, he can hear nothing.

When Laurens descends the stairs, he is stony-faced and furious, his jaw clenched unhappily. He does not say a word, though he makes brief eye contact with Hamilton before storming out into the settling night.

Three entire weeks pass before Laurens approaches Hamilton privately to say, "I can't make peace with this. But I will _always_ be your friend."

It's not the unqualified reassurance Hamilton most craved, but it's better than he feared. He doesn't answer, except to clasp his friend in a desperate hug. For once, he has no idea what to say.

When the embrace ends, Laurens grabs him by the arms and peers hard into his face. "Promise you'll tell me if he hurts you."

"I promise," Hamilton says. And if he intends to follow a narrower definition of 'hurt' than Laurens surely means, well, he has still spoken honestly.

Another week passes. Then a month. A span of time so busy Hamilton barely has opportunity to consider the slight shift in his relationship with John Laurens. His friend is true to his word. He does not abandon Hamilton. But beyond that there is little chance for private discussion of difficult things.

When a new need arises, for a fresh battalion to venture into South Carolina, Hamilton feels the dread of it even before he knows for certain who will be put in command.

He is not deliberately eavesdropping, but he doesn't interrupt when he finds himself outside Washington's private office and hears a familiar voice inside. "I see what you're doing. You're trying to keep me here for his sake. You know it needs to be me to take our forces south, yet you allow your feelings to cloud your judgment."

Hovering as he is beside the barely open door, Hamilton cannot see his husband's face when Washington answers, "Perhaps I am. There are others I can send, nearly as capable as you. Perhaps you are needed more _here_."

"I wish that were so," Laurens says, so quietly the words barely reach the hall. "I wish there were more I could contribute, here at the heart of our efforts. But you and I both know I'm more valuable in the field."

In the end, there is no true alternative, and Hamilton knows it even before he hears the general confirm. Laurens is the most qualified and the most senior of all the officers Washington might send on this campaign. Personal feelings _cannot_ sway the analysis.

So Hamilton watches his dearest friend depart, heart inexplicably heavy as he promises himself they will see each other again.


End file.
